Praise Not Needed
by EtherDoc
Summary: A glimpse into Sherlock's past as a child, teenager, and young adult. Collection of feel-good one shots that will warm your heart and leave you smiling. Stays true to characters. More chapters to come.
1. Praise Not Needed

Sherlock was five when his mother first set him down in front of a piano. His older brother was reading in one corner of their sitting room. It was a thick book with gold trim and the pages rustled each time he turned them.

"Pay attention William," his mother chided gently.

His young fingers copied the keys his mother played, traveling carefully up the keyboard, the notes loud against the still morning. Mycroft rolled his eyes and shut his book with a thud.

"There are other placed for you to read," his mother said without turning around. "Come here Mycroft."

She stood up and pat the bench. Mycroft dropped into the seat besides him.

"Play some scales for him. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Mycroft sighed as he lightly touched the keys with graceful hands. He played through all the major scales and Sherlock sat staring with wide eyes. Mycroft looked hopefully towards the door but their mother hadn't returned.

"Play something else, Myc," Sherlock begged.

"I told you not to call me that, William," Mycroft replied.

"Sherlock," he corrected. "I like Sherlock. It's my name."

"If you call me Myc I am going to start calling you Sherly."

Sherlock stuck out his upper lip and glared up at his big brother. He squealed as Mycroft's fingers tickled his ribs.

"Okay! Okay! Stop tickling me!" Sherlock giggled helplessly.

"Your turn to play," Mycroft gestured to the keyboard.

"One song. Pleeeeease," Sherlock said.

Mycroft picked something he knew his brother loved to hear. Mozart had been a true genius in Mycroft's opinion. His music gently followed a pattern of up and down, one note following another in an almost predicable pattern. Yet when you heard the music in it's entirety in became something more. Youthful and full of energy. Mycroft always thought of birds when he played. Mozart's music was like their early morning song. When he finished playing Sherlock wiggled down under the piano and sat on the floor.

"Will...Sherlock. Mother wants us both to learn to play piano. I was already playing Bach minuets when I was your age."

Sherlock turned around until his back was to Mycroft. He sulked with his arms knit around his knees.

"I hate piano. All your fingers are doing something different. It's too hard."

Mycroft slid down off the piano bench and sat next to Sherlock, ducking his head so it didn't hit the piano above his head.

"Do you want to know a secret? I don't care for piano either. Mummy says when I turn twelve this year I can quit playing if I want."

"Really really?" Sherlock asked.

"Really really. Playing a musical instrument takes patience and hard work. That's the lesson she wants you to learn," Mycroft said.

Sherlock put his chin on hands and furrowed his brow.

"I'm hungry," he said. "Can we have cookies? With milk?"

"At ten in the morning? No we can't."

"Pleeeeeease. I won't go in your room for a whole week if you say yes."

"You shouldn't be in my room ever. That's why you have your own room," Mycroft replied.

Mycroft stood up and went to the tape player on the mantel. He pushed play without bothering to rewind it. He immediately recognized Mozart's violin concerto No.3. He turned around to see what Sherlock was getting up to. He wasn't normally silent. Words came out of him like they were going extinct.

His little brother had his eyes tightly shut and the tip of his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth. Their mother returned to the room and still Sherlock was sitting with intent concentration as he listened to the sweet sounds of the lead violinist.

"What kind of instrument is that?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"Violin," Mycroft replied.

Their mother stepped out of the room, her finger to her lips. Mycroft didn't bother to tell her that Sherlock knew she was there. He had sharp ears and would have recognized her gentle footfall. The song ended and Sherlock scooted out from beneath the piano.

"I want to learn violin," he said.

"Violin is more difficult than piano," Mycroft said.

Sherlock didn't reply. Mycroft recognized the set of his shoulders and that gleam in his blue eyes. Sherlock had made a decision and he was going to be stubborn about it. Mycroft sighed again and handed him a red book from the bookshelves. Sherlock hugged it tight to his chest, grinning widely.

"A Guide to Classi... classi," Sherock read.

"Classical Insturments," Mycroft finished.

"Ta Myc! I mean Mycroft."

Two days later there was a small case with an even smaller violin tucked inside in the sitting room. It was there for Sherlock when he woke up and came stumbling through on the way to the kitchen. He came to a stop, his hunger forgotten, as he took in the shiny wood and curves of the instrument. The bow was already tight and had a thin coat of rosin. He put the violin to his chin and lightly ran the bow over the strings. His arm moved back and forth, listening to the sounds each string made. Then he tried pressing down on each string with his fingers. There were white lines going across the neck and that was where he pressed.

Two hours later his mother came in to offer him breakfast. He just shook his head and went back to experimenting. Over and over again he held his fingers to different notes and let the bow move across the strings in sweeping movements.

"He has a natural talent," their mother whispered to Mycroft. Soon a tutor was called in.

It became a family ritual. Each day they would gather in the sitting room. Sometimes father was there as well. They would listen to Sherlock struggle through his repertoire. Myrcroft didn't offer praise or support. He knew Sherlock didn't need it. This new passion was keeping Sherlock away from his room and out of trouble. He prayed it stayed that way.

Sherlock refused to perform in front of an audience. Mummy thought it was because he was scared. Mycroft knew better. Sherlock wanted his privacy and he didn't need the feeble praise of adults listening to a child's awkward performance. Mycroft thought that might change eventually, as he grew more comfortable on the violin and thought he was good enough to deserve that praise. But as the months passed and Sherlock's talents progressed Mycroft decided it wasn't something that would change. The violin was and would always be a tool for Sherlock. Something he used to channel his feelings and intelligence. It was Sherlock's passion and it belonged to him. He would never share it with the entire world. However he would play for his family, as if they were the only ones he needed to hear praise from.

Twenty Years Later

"That was amazing!" John exclaimed as Sherlock lowered his bow.

Sherlock didn't reply. He gave John a small smile before he loosened the bow and tucked everything together in the case.

"How long have you been playing?"

"Since I was a child. I grew up with private instruction," Sherlock replied, as if he owed his abilities to their tutelage.

"Does Mycroft play too then?" John asked.

"Piano," Sherlock said.

"I can't picture that. You and Mycroft playing together," John chuckled.

"We didn't. He gave up piano when he turned twelve, much to Mummy's chagrin."

"But you kept on playing. I don't know much about music but you sound like you could be playing professionally."

Sherlock turned towards the window, gazing down into the street with his hands behind his back. He was still so long that John assumed the conversation was over. Then he turned to John, a smile touching his eyes.

"I only play for family," Sherlock said.

John felt his heart warm. It was the deepest compliment Sherlock had paid him. That evening as he drifted off to sleep he could once more hear the lilting sounds of the violin, following him into the night.


	2. Pirates

John reached down to grab a tissue from the box on the floor. When he finished with it he threw it in a crumpled mess on top of the fifty already there.

"That's not very sanitary," Sherlock said.

"I'm a doctor. You think I don't know that? I just don't care. I'm sick. I hate being sick," John replied.

John turned away and buried his face into the couch cushions.

"The couch isn't as comfortable as your bed," Sherlock said.

"How would you know?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John lifted his head but the mad detective was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was making tea. Tea sounded lovely.

"John," a voice whispered in his ear, making him start.

"Tea?" John asked hopefully.

"Your bed is more comfortable. I've confirmed it," Sherlock said.

So that's where he'd been. Testing his bed like this was some sort of experiment.

"Sherlock I want to be out here so I can watch crap telly. And stay out of my room."

John wallowed down into the cushions, pulling his blanket to his chest. Doctor Who was playing on the screen but it was an episode he hadn't seen before and he couldn't keep up. Sherlock sat down beside him, almost on top of his feet.

"When I was little – very little – Mycroft would tell me stories. Not all the time. But when I was sick," Sherlock said quietly.

"Can't picture that," John said.

"Would you like me to tell you one now?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at the man perched besides him in a wrinkled blue robe, his hair sticking out at every angle. He could easily imagine Sherlock as a boy, more wild and carefree than he was even now. And maybe happier. Growing up took something from you. With Sherlock it had taken less than most people.

"Why not," he sighed.

Sherlock went around the room turning off lights.

"What-"

"Ambiance John!"

Sherlock ended up where he'd started, a ruffled thin bird on the edge of the couch.

"Once upon a time," he started.

John giggled until a coughing spell made him stop.

"Continue," he managed to say with a straight face. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously then tried again.

"Once upon a time in a sea somewhere far away, there was a pirate named…" Sherlock paused.

"Go on," John encouraged.

"Named John," Sherlock decided, looking pleased with himself.

"Hold up a mo. Is this the same story Mycroft told you when you were a boy?"

"Is that a problem?" Sherlock asked.

"Just wondering." John gave an enormous yawn.

"Pirate John sailed the seven seas (common misconception that – there are not seven seas) looking for the long lost treasure of Captain Mycroft. He brought with him his one true companion, a beautiful red dog named Redbeard. Redbeard and Pirate John travelled to faraway places on their craft, always in search of adventure …"

Sherlock trailed off as John's hand dropped to the floor. His eyes were shut and he was snoring quietly from his open mouth. Sherlock frowned as he wondered if John would want to be woken up again to hear the end.

All at once he thought of Mycroft, a gangly awkward teen, leaning over to kiss him goodnight as he lay sleepy and warm in his bed. Redbeard would be sleeping at the foot and Mycroft would threaten to tell Mummy but he never did. They'd never been close as children. Mycroft was like a distant storm. Sherlock knew he was there but not for how long or when he would come back.

Sherlock looked at John. Had his relationship with Harry been like that or something different? He'd never thought to ask. Sherlock bent over until he could feel John's breath coming in and out of his nose.

"Good night, John," he whispered and kissed his brow carefully, just as Mycroft had so many years before.

"Nite Harry," John muttered in his sleep.


	3. Dancing

Mrs. Hudson pushed the door open with her back and turned around carefully, balancing a tray of tea and biscuits. She paused in the doorway.

"I knew it!" she muttered to herself.

The coffee table and chairs were shoved into the kitchen and the books and papers on the floor had been piled onto the sofa. Sherlock held his hand in John's and had the other on his shoulder. Her boys were dancing. The music that played through the speakers of the docking station was a waltz, she knew that much. Sherlock would know the composer. He didn't know the PM of England but he would know that.

"Stop trying to lead!" John snapped. "I'll be dancing with Mary, not you."

"You could dance with me," Sherlock suggested.

"At my own wedding? I don't think so."

Her boys paused in their steps when they saw her lingering at their threshold.

"On the table please Mrs. Hudson," John said, motioning with his head. "And this isn't what it looks like. Sherlock is teaching me to dance. For my wedding. With Mary."

"Oh that's alright dears. Behind closed doors and all that," she replied.

"That isn't... nevermind," John sighed.

"Oh I remember when Sherlock was teaching ballet. That was an age ago it seems," Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock dropped his head and closed his eyes.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he snapped.

"Wait. What? Sherlock you can do ballet?" John asked.

Sherlock picked up the bow to his violin and twirled it in the air, catching it again easily with one hand like it was a baton.

"And judo. Don't forget the judo," he muttered.

"Don't be embarrassed! There's nothing to be embarrassed about. What a sight it was. He was really quite good you know. The children just adored him. He would do that thing across the floor and they would all follow like little ducklings. What was it called?"

Sherlock visibly resigned himself to having this conversation. He collapsed on the sofa, scattering papers back down to the floor.

"Glissade," Sherlock said. "It's french for sliding."

"Does this mean Mycroft also did ballet?" John snickered.

"Mycroft didn't need the same outlet for energy as I did as a child. And he abhors exercise. He was really quite porky until uni," Sherlock said.

"Ballet isn't the same as ballroom dance, I know that much," John said.

Sherlock glared over at Mrs. Hudson where she was balanced on the edge of John's chair. She moved both her fingers across her lips in a zipping motion. She wasn't about to tell John _that_.

"I learned enough to get by. Youtube and all that."

"You have great acting skills but I know you well enough that I can tell when you're lying. Even Mary can tell. So confess," John replied.

Sherlock fiddled with the buttons of his shirt.

"I was a wedding planner," he finally said.

John's jaw dropped and Mrs. Hudson buried her face in her apron to keep from laughing.

"That... that explains a lot actually. Mary said you've been amazing."

"One of my services that set me apart from other planners was dancing lessons. After ballet the waltz wasn't too difficult. It did take some time to learn. A few hours. Not as much time as you're taking John, but you aren't me."

"Thanks," John said sarcastically. "So you catered to the young and in love. How do you have such a jaded view of marriage?"

"Because I catered to the young and in love. Do you know how many couples were divorced after a year? Ten percent. And at five years, forty percent. Of course it was obvious why the marriages didn't last. If asked I would have been able to provide an accurate estimate of the time until divorce. Cheating was common. As was marriage for money."

Sherlock was silent until Mrs. Hudson started laughing. She couldn't help it.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"Tell him about Florida," Mrs. Hudson said.

"If I must. I'd been asked to fly to the States by a happy couple. She was from London, he was from Florida. After two weeks of their constant bickering I redacted their contract."

Mrs. Hudson couldn't bare it any longer. She had to interrupt.

"But first he did that deduction thing on each of them!" she said. "Go on!" she encouraged Sherlock.

"I simply informed the groom that his soon-to-be wife was in fact sleeping with the best man, who also happened to be his brother. However, that paled in comparison to the secret he was keeping. That he had not inherited his fortune from a distant uncle, but was instead the right hand man in a drug cartel operating out of Florida."

"Turns out he was the right hand man to my husband. Those were the days! Such a whirlwind romance. They were all convicted. Sherlock provided compelling evidence," Mrs. Hudson said.

John leaned against the wall in complete shock. Mrs. Hudson fanned herself with one hand, completely out of breath.

"So then," John cleared his throat.

"You're wondering about your pending matrimony?" Sherlock said.

"Not sure I want to know now," John said.

Mrs. Hudson leaned over to take Sherlock's hand. She gave it a little shake. Sherlock gave her a small smile.

"For all the problems that may come your way (as they so often do in marriage) you and Mary have the intelligence, strength, and love to face them. Of all the couples I've had the pleasure and displeasure of working with, you and Mary stand the greatest chance in succeeding. As to how long that will last? At least a lifetime."

John beamed in the praise and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

"But only if you learn to waltz," Sherlock ended.

"Oi!"

Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her, shaking her head to herself. There was only one think Sherlock had neglected to tell John, and that was one secret she would keep to herself. Sherlock never went through planning a wedding if he thought the marriage would fail. He would teach John to dance, and John would dance for Mary. For the rest of his life.


	4. Christmas

Fairy lights were strung around the window frames and even up to the moose antlers on the wall. The flat was warmed by a large fire and outside it was snowing. They stood together and raised their glasses.

"Happy Christmas!" John toasted.

"Happy Christmas," they returned.

Sherlock picked up his violin and glanced around at the group. As they continued talking to each other he lay it back down again.

"You could play. No one would mind," came Molly's quiet voice.

"I could. But I won't," he said, pointing to the sofa with his bow. Little Emma lay in her carseat fast asleep.

"Sherlock! Here, have some crackers," Mary called.

"He can't eat. He's on a case. Or dieting. Wait that's you Myc," John laughed.

"How very droll," Mycroft sighed.

"No. Thank you Mary."

"Hey he remembered your name. I can't tell you how many girlfriends I had – no don't look at me like that Mary! - how many girlfriends I had and Sherlock couldn't remember their name. One Christmas…"

Sherlock tuned the rest of the conversation out, turning to look at Molly instead.

"I used to love Christmas when I was a boy," he said.

"But not anymore?" Molly teased.

"It's different now. When I was a boy there was a newness to everything. There were firsts and seconds. First time on a bike, second time on skates. Even the tenth time was meaningful. Now I've had almost forty years of Christmas and they're all the same. Crackers and lights and drinkies."

"There is a way to make something new again," Molly said, wiping her mouth with her thumb where cracker crumbs had gotten stuck. Sherlock watched her lips then glanced away.

"You mean remember it of course," Sherlock said.

"No silly! Tell someone about it. Go on, try it. Pick a Christmas, your favorite Christmas. And then I'll tell you mine."

Sherlock looked at the floor and Molly wasn't sure if he was thinking of something or trying to find a way to tell her that he had no intention of sharing such intimate information.

"My favorite Christmas was when I was seven. Christmas was still exciting enough to wake up early for. There was a large fir tree downstairs by the fire. There were never many presents. Mummy didn't want us spoiled. That just made the gifts more meaningful," he said.

"Go on," Molly encouraged.

"Mycroft was a teenager and before Christmas morning he would know each of the gifts we were to receive. He was always telling me he was the smart one."

"I am the smart one!" Mycroft called out from across the room.

"Do shut up!" Sherlock snapped back.

"Ignore him," Molly said, steering him to a corner where they could continue.

"He didn't shake boxes or discover secret hiding places. Mycroft figured it out by the process of elimination. Nothing too big, something we'd expressed a repeated interest in having, narrow it down to a specific price range. And if I asked he would give me clues until I figured it out. This year was different. He didn't say a word. And I knew it was something big, something Mummy had threated to punish Mycroft for if he said a word. That morning I ran downstairs as fast as I could. I rushed to the tree but there were no boxes with colored paper and bows. I thought Mummy had forgotten to set them out the night before. Then I felt something wet on my palm. I turned around and there was this red Irish Setter. He wasn't a puppy but he wasn't too far off. A young dog. A beautiful dog," Sherlock said.

"What did you name him?" Molly asked.

"I called him Redbeard."

They were both quiet a moment and then Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Did it work?" Molly asked with a small smile.

"It was an interesting experiment," he replied neutrally.

"You've changed Sherlock. I remember that one Christmas and you couldn't open your mouth without something mean coming out. And here you are making small talk with me," she said.

"Yes well. Actually there's something I've been meaning to say. I meant to say it before. I know it was a long time ago. That is to say I've been thinking…" Sherlock said.

"Go on," Molly said, sipping at her drink. It had warmed her cheeks and they were glowing. Her eyes were bright and happy. Sherlock paused. Would an apology make that gentle fire go out? Tonight he wanted to bask in it. Perhaps it could wait until tomorrow.

"It's okay. Whatever you're worried about, don't worry so much. It's Christmas," she said. She downed the rest of her drink in one swallow.

Sherlock put his glass down on the coffee table. It was almost full. He took Molly's empty cup and placed it next to his. His movements were deliberate and careful. He stepped closer to her.

"What… what are you doing?" she stuttered.

Molly glanced overhead looking for some sign of mistletoe. There was none.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he said quietly. They both ignored the catcalls behind them, oblivious to anything except each other.

"What was that for?" Molly asked breathlessly as he pulled away.

"An apology and a thank you. I hope that surpassed my previous efforts," Sherlock said, pulling at his shirt nervously.

"I think we'll need a few more samples before I can make that deduction," Molly replied.


	5. Miss You

Long gone were the days of riding Redbeard down the hallway with a pirate sword in hand. What a surly teenager his brother was transforming into. Sherlock left his bedroom reluctantly each evening to dine with the family, stubbornly quiet the entire meal.

"How does it feel to be finished at University?" father asked.

"Oh leave off it," his mother said, swiping at his arm. "He doesn't want to talk about school. Tell us about your work in Parliament!"

There wasn't much to tell of course. It was an unexciting position under an even less exciting Secretary but it was a foot in the door. A toe was all he really needed and he had that.

"It pays the bills?" Mycroft replied, searching for the answer that would quickly change the topic.

"There you are then!" father said. The conversation thankfully moved to other things.

"I've an apple pie for desert," mother said, getting up from the table.

"Any ice cream?" Sherlock asked. The whole family paused – his mother balancing the dishes with two hands, his father pausing in his drink. All eyes were on Sherlock and his uncharacteristic decision to speak.

"I think I might," his mother managed.

"Can I have two scoops please?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"I'll have some as well," he said.

"Shouldn't you be dieting?" Sherlock asked.

Ah! Here was the motive behind the conversation. Sherlock wanted to spar. Mycroft allowed himself a small smile.

"I should think not. I've lost almost a stone since I started Uni," Mycroft replied.

"Oh you boys!" his mother said as she placed a bowl in front of each of them. Neither one paid her any mind. The ice cream was also ignored.

"And gained most of it back since leaving," Sherlock said.

"In which time you've read a library's worth of books, including Melville's Confidence Man, and several issues of Rolling Stone Magazine. Bit low brow, don't you think?"

"Better than reading classified documents from behind locked doors, _Myc_," Sherlock retorted.

"Unclassified," Mycroft replied with a slight smile. "I would never be so bold."

"Not yet maybe," Sherlock muttered.

Their father found his newspaper and held it up until it covered his face.

"Do something!" their mother demanded.

"They're just being boys," he said without looking up to where she was standing, tapping one foot against the floor. She grabbed the remaining plates from the table and stormed off to wash them.

"You're failing maths. Again," Mycroft deduced. "And Angela Winesburry from next door asked you to the dance."

"You're dating a woman three years your senior," Sherlock shot back.

"I don't know how you boys do it. Not from my side of the family, I can tell you that. It's your mother in you," father prattled from behind his paper.

"Do you really want to go there?" Mycroft asked Sherlock. Sherlock didn't reply. That would be a point for him then. None for Sherlock. As usual.

"Your employer has two small dogs and uses a cane."

"Angela asked you out on a dare. She's actually rather interested in girls."

Sherlock paused.

"Really?" he asked. Mycroft hummed in affirmation.

"This is why I'm the smart one," he said.

They both sat quietly for a moment until their father stood up and went to join mother in the sitting room. Sherlock looked over at Mycroft and a ghost of a smile touched his lips.

"I'm not stupid, Myc," he finally said.

"Perish the thought."

"I've missed you," Sherlock said.

"I've missed you as well."


	6. Proposal

It was almost midnight when the text came. John gently shook Mary awake. She rolled over and rubbed at her eyes.

"What is it? Is Melody awake? It's your turn," she said sleepily.

"No it's Sherlock. He says it's urgent. Mind if I pop out for a bit?" he asked.

John could already feel the excitement building in his veins.

"Bring your Browning. It's in the closet," she yawned.

She didn't tell him to be careful or stay safe. There were some advantages to having a former CIA operative for a wife.

John took the car-seat out of Mary's car just in case. They couldn't have a repeat of the last time. The upholstery was still stained with the blood that hadn't come out and they'd had to replace the car-seat entirely. A yellow cab was waiting, its motor running, as he pulled up to Baker Street.

"Cab for Dr. Watson," the cabbie said, opening up the door.

John eyes the cabbie suspiciously but stepped inside. His Browning was comfortably tucked into the back of his jeans. They drove past the Westminster Bridge and towards the South Bank on the River Thames. The cabbie pulled into a large parking lot and opened the door again.

"He says to meet him over there,' the cabbie said, pointing towards the Ferris wheel.

John kept his hands by his sides, alert for danger. He walked towards the Ferris wheel, a blue specter against the dark sky, its light reflecting in the waters below. It was difficult to grasp the size and enormity of the London Eye from a distance. John had been here once to take Mary up. It was more of a tourist attraction but everyone in London had probably been on at least once. Everyone except Sherlock. Surely that couldn't be what this was about.

John walked towards the water, glad he had brought his gun. The area was suspiciously empty and the Eye should not have been lit up at this late hour. Then he saw Sherlock and he gave a relieved sigh. Sherlock's eyes widened when he saw John. He quickly ruffled his hair with his fingers then strode over confidently. Before John could say anything Sherlock had dropped to one knee. He took one of John's hands in his and looked up with a soft expression.

"We've known each other a long time now. It seems like forever. You were the first. And I want you to be the last. Can you find it in your heart to make me your husband?"

John felt his jaw drop open.

"Is this for a case?" he asked, pulling his hand away. Sherlock remained kneeling on the ground.

"No. How could this possibly be for a case? You're supposed to say yes."

"Alright well you do realize I'm already married? And have a child?" John asked. He really needed to sit down and the ground was starting to look like a good option.

"Yes. Of course," Sherlock replied.

"I don't understand," John said.

"I'm proposing!"

"I got that part. I still don't understand…"

Sherlock sighed and stood up. He put his hands deep in his pockets and sulked. There was a long silence that grew more and more uncomfortable.

"I'm practicing. For Molly," he finally said.

"Oh. Oh! Thank god," John said. He realized he'd been holding his breath and now it burned as the air flowed back into his lungs.

"Do you think she'll agree?" Sherlock asked.

He seemed so vulnerable in that moment and it made him seem younger, much younger. Sherlock was rarely uncertain about anything but John realized he was terrified about this. He took his arm gently and gave it a light shake.

"There's only one way to know. You have to ask her. Not me," he said quietly.

Sherlock gave a small nod.

"Now I'm going home. To bed. Goodnight Sherlock. Tell me how it goes," John said, walking away.

"John?"

John turned around.

"Thank you," Sherlock said.

John chuckled lightly to himself. Of course she would say yes. She'd been waiting ages for him to ask. Best not to let Sherlock know. The nervousness would be quite appealing to Molly.

"Idiot," John muttered even though Sherlock couldn't hear him.


	7. New Face at Baker Street

Sherlock peered through the wire bars and into the small cage on top of the coffee table. A small brown rat ran quickly in his wheel, the wheel squeaking loudly with each turn.

"I'm calling him Basil. What do you think?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer. He was pushing the tip of one pencil inside the cage and Basil was chewing on it.

"Basil of Baker Street. Has a nice ring to it," John said.

"He must be bored living inside a small cage with only chew toys for companions," Sherlock said.

"Not unlike a fish in a fish bowl," John replied. "He's fine."

John put on his jacket and Sherlock could deduce from his recent withdraw from the chip machine that he planned to go to the tracks.

"But the mouse," Sherlock protested.

"It's a rat. He isn't going anywhere. Unless you take him out. Leave him in his cage Sherlock. He's not some lab mouse for you to experiment on."

Sherlock counted John's 17 steps down the stairs and waited until the door closed behind him to pry the small door of the cage open. The rat cowered and shivered in a corner as he tried to reach it. He was very curious to see if he could train a rat. He had expected the thing to be compliant. Perhaps he needed incentive.

Sherlock pulled a cracker from a box. He nibbled on one end. Stale, expired. Perfect.

He placed a small corner into the palm of his hand and waited. He was good at waiting. He didn't move for an hour and finally the rat nervously moved towards his outstretched palm. Basil took the proffered feast and returned to his corner to enjoy his meal. Sherlock smiled in victory. The next time was thirty minutes. Then five. He was sure he could have brought the time down to under a minute but then John was downstairs opening the door. Sherlock closed the door of the cage quickly and dived into the couch, pulling his dressing gown around him like a cocoon.

"Sherlock? I'm back!"

John whistled all the way up the stairs, obviously in good spirits. He'd won a great sum of money at the track. That was a change.

"Hey move over. There's a new episode of Doctor Who tonight."

The next day he was better prepared. He took two extra biscuits from the tea tray and formulated a plan.

"Glad to see you eating a bit more. You're so thin!" Mrs. Hudson gushed.

"Good bye Mrs. Hudson," he replied, pushing her out the door.

John had left for clinic early that morning and wouldn't be home until after 5. That left nine hours to train his rat.

"Alright Basil. What should we do today?" he said, rubbing his hands together.

He was correct on the reduced amount of time. And after the meal of biscuits Basil decided to rest on Sherlock's hand. He slowly withdrew his hand and Basil blinked at him softly, completely unconcerned. Sherlock used a finger to scratch under the rat's chin and Basil rubbed his head against the fingers.

"Enough of that," Sherlock said. "Now the real training begins!"

It was easy to get Basil to run through cardboard rolls by dropping small bits of food along the course.

What tricks would be most useful?

**One Year Later**

"Sherlock the drapes are on fire!" John shouted.

"I can see that John!"

"Basil!" Sherlock called.

"What about him?" John asked, struggling against his cuffs.

"Basil!" Sherlock called.

"Did...did he just open his own cage?"

The rat ran to his feet, whiskers twitching. Sherlock wriggled his fingers at the shiny object just beyond his reach. Those small intelligent eyes darted to the key.

"Basil, fetch!" Sherlock commanded and to John's surprise Basil did just that. Sherlock snapped his fingers and Basil dropped the key into his waiting hand, whiskers twitching.

"Sherlock."

"Yes John?"

"I told you not to open the cage..."


	8. Learning to Remember

Sherlock didn't usually mind being sick. His body was just something to get from point A to point B. If it wasn't functioning it didn't matter. He still had his brain. He could still think and disappear into world of his own creation. Mycroft had taught him a very special way to remember things. Myc called it memory association.

"Close your eyes William," Mycroft would say.

"My name is Sherlock."

"Close your eyes."

Then Mycroft would name 15 things. They seemed random and it was up to Sherlock to put them all over the house he was so familiar with using his mind. He projected the fish on the coat rack, hanging it by it's mouth. The car went into the living room and it was watching the telly. A toy went into his bedroom where it hung from the ceiling. When he opened his eyes Myc would start a timer. Five minutes later Sherlock would close them again. He'd walk through the house in his head, looking for the objects. He always remembered all 15.

"Someday the house will need to get bigger to store more information. But the house you grew up in will always hold the most important memories. Be careful what you decide to leave there," Mycroft said.

But now he was too sick to escape into the house in his head. He was feverish and confused and miserable.

Mummy came in to check on his frequently during the day. Then she would kiss his forehead one last time before she went to sleep. Sherlock would be left alone and his lungs would be burning and his head would was swimming. He tried not to feel sorry for himself. It would serve no purpose. It was so unfair a simple chest cold had turned into pneumonia.

Tonight he couldn't even get to sleep. He stared out his window into the dark night. It was overcast but he could still make out the gentle glow of the moon behind the clouds. Then he heard a door creak. He knew it was Myc and a second later his own door opened.

"Want company?" Myc asked.

"Not yours." Sherlock said.

Mycroft smiled and opened the door wider. Redbeard trotted over and jumped up on the bed. Sherlock held him close, his face against the soft red fur.

"Let's play a game," Myc suggested.

"What kind of game?"

"You're going to learn French. Are you ready?" Myc asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"The sun shines. Le soleil brille. Picture the sun shining when you repeat the words. Brille is a shining sound. Can you hear it?" Mycroft asked.

"Le soleil brille," Sherlock repeated.

"Some words in French sound very much like their English counterparts. Those are easiest to remember. Humain almost sounds like human. Hear the difference between the two? The French version is much more temperamental."

"Le soleil brille. Humain," Sherlock repeated.

"Remember the associating technique? We can use it to learn a language as well. Fish is fiche. Picture fiche in the kitchen downstairs, flopping all over the floor. Vocabulary is the first stumbling block to learning. It stems from phonetic shock. We have to train our ears to hear new sounds and our mouths to form them. There are two steps to learning a foreign language: passive and active. You will become and remain fluent once you become an active learner and are able to practice."

"So I'm going to learn French?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh goodness no. You're going to learn French, Italian, and Latin. Once you know one language you can learn more because learning will be facilitated by looking for analogies, resemblances, common points and filing them in the same place in your memory. Then you only have to remember how each word is different, the particularities of each language," Mycroft replied.

The next night Myroft came in Sherlock was holding a French dictionary.

"You've been practicing I see," Mycroft said.

"Le soleil brille!" Sherlock replied.

"Not right now it isn't. Today we're going to work on idiomatic expressions. We'll take 10 words and string them together to form a story. The story won't make sense. That isn't its purpose. The purpose is to integrate new words together as to remember them."

Sherlock drifted off to sleep an hour later. Right before the darkness took him he realized Mycroft was distracting him from his illness.

The next morning Mycroft was up early. He brought in some paper and a pencil.

"Today we'll practice writing. Serrons-nous la main. Let's "squeeze the hand". Visualize your hand as you write. Good. Nine more times. Excellent."

"This is really neat, Myc," Sherlock said.

"It's how I've learned five languages. It's harder for languages without Latin or Greek roots. There's two more things to learn: grammar and humor. If you hear a joke in a foreign language you will probably remember it. You have to concentrate on which words make the joke funny. Grammar is a little more difficult but it will come in time. Now you have something to do while you rehabilitate. I'll come in every night and we'll only speak French. Think of it as immersion. It's the best teacher," Mycroft said.

"Thanks Myc!"

TWENTY YEARS LATER

"Do you really know five languages?" John asked.

"I do," replied Sherlock.

"That's amazing! How did you do that?"

"Anyone can do it. It helps to start at a young age," Sherlock said.

"How did you learn?" John asked.

"Mycroft taught me. We put words in my mind palace. It wasn't a palace back then. It was my childhood home. I was sick with pneumonia for months. We practiced French and Italian. I was fluent in both before my eighth birthday."

"There's no way I could do that," John laughed.

"Anyone can do it. That's the beauty memory exercises," Sherlock replied.

"So you're saying I could learn?"

"I would be happy to teach you," Sherlock said.

"Spanish?" John asked. "Or French. Both would be helpful in clinic."

"I don't know Spanish. Give me a week to learn and I'll teach you."

"Bloody genius," John muttered.


	9. Charades

The family was gathered in the sitting room with Mummy on the sofa with Mycroft and father in his great chair. It was Thursday evening, an evening where they all gathered together to share an activity as a family. Sherlock was set on sabatoge and Mycroft wasn't far behind him. There were much more intesting things to spend time on like studying cell cultures or reading Melville.

"Let's play charades!" Mummy said, clasping her hands together with excitement.

"Let's not," muttered Sherlock under his breath. At eight years old he was already as surly as a teenager. It was as if his mind was waiting for the rest of his body to catch up.

"I'll go first," Mycroft volunteered. At 15 he was a great deal taller than Sherlock and a great deal wider as well. He stood besides the coffee table and stared straight ahead.

"Any time dear," his mother said.

"Owl," Sherlock guessed. Mycroft grinned and Sherlock took his place.

"Dear lord, what have we done," father muttered under his breath.

Sherlock stood in front of the family. He weaved himself down into the floor then back up again.

"Shoe lace!" Mycroft shouted. Mummy sighed.

"You boys. Well at least you're entertaining to watch. You're next Mycroft."

Mycroft moved his arms and hands upside down then around in circles.

"That's disgusting Myc," Sherlock snorted.

"I don't want to know," father said. "Do a different one my boy."

Mycroft shrugged and stared up at the ceiling.

"Police box!"

Then it was: "Queen Elizabeth!"

And finally, "Hot air balloon."

"Well perhaps that's enough charades for one night. I'll leave you boys to your hobbies," Mummy said.

Father waited until she'd left then turned to the boys.

"That wasn't very nice. She'll be quite put off if she realizes what you've done," he said.

Both boys looked up at him with the sweet innocence only children possess.

"What's that father?" Sherlock asked.

"You two figured out we'd be playing charades and practiced ahead of time. Don't look at me like that. You're both smart but I'm still your dad and I know what's what. You sneaky little buggers. Off you pop then."


	10. A Special Gift

Mummy brought home the new baby on his 7th birthday. It was a day for celebration, she said. She gave him little William Sherlock Scott to hold as father brought out several boxes, each topped with a bow. William slept in his arms, oblivious to the fact that he'd invaded their home and their lives by being born. Mycroft sulked at he opened his gifts. The first was a microscope with premade slides of bugs and butterfly wings. There were an assortment of extra slides for future use.

"Thank you," he said with a small smile.

The next present was a marble run coaster kit with several design options. Mycroft could see a pattern in the gifts. Educational, science related, and requiring activity. The next package was somewhat smaller than the other. The object inside rattled around.

"Gyroscope," he said.

"There he goes! It's like Christmas all over again," father said, handing Mycroft the last box.

Mycroft frowned. "This isn't for me," he said without opening the present.

"It's for you to share with William" said Mummy.

"He can have it," Mycroft said hopefully.

"No he cannot. Not without supervision," she replied.

It was some months before William learned anything useful. Mycroft would discuss history or music, show him the new slides he'd prepared for his microscope, and William would simply lie there, looking at him with wide blue eyes.

"Ba... ba," William said over and over again.

"You're an idiot. I'm the smart one," Mycroft replied.

The unopened gift sat in the back of his closet. William was much to young to appreciate it now.

At nine months William started walking. He wreaked havoc around the home, pulling down anything within his tiny reach. It was amazing he survived those first few weeks. Mycroft distracted him by bringing the marble run downstairs to the diningroom table. There Mummy could put him in a high chair so he could watch the marble spin through its loops. Mycroft had constructed it in a few hours and without help. He was still working on getting the gyroscope to balance on twine. It wasn't his fault his hands hadn't caught up with his mind. He knew that time would come and shrugged off his lack of success.

William finally hit one year of age. There was a big party with lots of balloons. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, and distant cousins all gathered in the family home to celebrate William's birthday. It was certainly more extravagant an event than his own last birthday. But he reasoned his first birthday had been just as special and dismissed his feelings of jealousy. He endured kisses and pinched cheeks and uncomfortable hugging before he retreated to the safety of his room. He breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind him. Then he laid on his bed, feet dangling off the edge, and thought about what people said didn't always reflect their body language. Mildred had complimented him on his bowtie and suit but she had licked her lips and her eyes had darted to one side as she said it. He didn't understand what made people lie. Why mention it at all if she didn't care for it? There were plenty of other things to talk about - like how he was dissecting bugs and mounting butterflies. And then there was Uncle Simon. He was married to Auntie Patricia but he kept looking at Auntie Esther. He didn't quite understand why but he knew it wasn't okay because Simon kept looking around to see if Patricia had noticed. And Esther kept giving him sly glances.

And poor William. All that endless attention must be overwhelming. He'd looked startled and unhappy by all the noise and excitement. In fact he had looked like Mycroft felt. And maybe that meant they both felt the same way. Solitude was a blessing. Quiet company was calming.

Just then he heard Mummy walk past his door.

"Time for a nap. You're all worn out."

The nursery door opened and then Mummy closed it behind her. Mycroft waiting until the count of 20 to peek out of his door. He ran back to the closet and pulled out the present he'd stored there. It was still wrapped. He took it to the nursery where William watched with much interest as he tore away the paper. He'd known what was inside of course. It was a leather bound book of Treasure Island.

"This is your reward for enduring a horid first birthday. They won't all be like this. So, chapter one, the old sea dog at the Admiral Benbow," Mycroft read aloud. He didn't even get through the first chapter. William was sound asleep, tucked into one corner of his crib.

"Good night, brother mine," he said. "We'll read more tomorrow. You'll love the part about the pirates."


	11. Good Day to Die

The box arrived in the middle of the day. Normally John would be at clinic - today he'd called off with a cold. Besides his slight fatigue he felt fine, but he was probably still infectious. Best to err on the side of caution than make his patients sicker than they already were.

He signed off for the small brown package and then carried it back upstairs where it sat unopened on the coffee table. He watched crap telly until it was lunch. There were left overs in the fridge and after a thorough inspection of the microwave John thought it might be useable. To be safe he put a small bowl of water and nuked it until it was boiling. Once the water was coating the inside surface of the microwave he used a flannel to wipe it down.

"Good enough," he muttered. Nothing was safe or off limits when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

John ate lunch in his favorite chair and replied to comments on his blog. An anonymous writer had just left four simple words.

_Don't open the box._

John dropped his lunch, not even noticing as the sauce dripped out all over the carpet. He knelt besides the coffee table, took a deep breath, and listened for the sound of anything electronic or ticking. There wasn't any noise coming from the box. It sat unassuming, as uninteresting and nondescript as it had been that morning.

John rechecked the blog. There were no new comments. Maybe the anonymous writer had been Sherlock and he was concerned because the box contained some sort of toxin. Or maybe it was something completely mundane, like a new pair of pants.

John sat on the couch and worried at his fingernails with his teeth. His computer chimed and he ran over to look at the comment.

_You should leave the flat John. And quickly._

John stood with his fists clenched at his sides. No one was going to tell him what he should and shouldn't do, especially not a random stranger. There was no way this was Sherlock. He would be more demanding.

_"__Leave the flat now if you value your life!" _Sherlock might write.

So the anonymous writer wasn't Sherlock. This was a threat. Should he chuck it out the window, call Scotland Yard? In the end he did neither. Instead he responded to this anon.

"What's in the box?" he asked.

_You could open it and find out. I suggest you don't._

"I bloody well won't. I value my life. That's it, I'm calling Greg."

Greg and John stood in the flat, staring down at the carefully wrapped brown box. There was another comment on his blog.

_You've brought in the police. That wasn't very smart of you._

"Look mate, are you sure this isn't Sherlock. Because this seems just like the sort of thing he would do."

Just then Sherlock came bounding up the stairs. He leaned over gasping in air, obviously out of breath.

"Don't open that!" he managed.

"So it wasn't you?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock only shook his head.

"How did you know to come home then?" John asked suspiciously.

Sherlock held out his phone and John read the text.

_Ten minutes. Baker Street. _

"It's not a bomb. But it is a threat," Sherlock said.

"Do you think it's Moriarty?" John asked.

They stood silently around the coffee table.

"Right, I'm calling in my bomb disposal unit. Or not. What the hell?"

"We're being jammed. We can't make any phone calls. Your computer is dead too John," Sherlock said.

"We may have only seconds. We need to make a decision," John said.

Lestrade rubbed his hands over his face.

"Just open the bloody thing already," he sighed.

Very carefully Sherlock unfolded the brown paper until the cardboard top was showing. Using a pocket knife he cut through the tape holding it together. He opened one lid and them the other. Inside was a much smaller brown box. Gingerly he placed it on the coffee table and went through the same procedure. At the third box he stopped and his face was like a thunderous storm.

"What?" John asked. He let go of the breath he hadn't know he'd been holding. Sherlock tossed the last box to John and threw himself down on the couch in a sulk.

"Damn!" he muttered. "He's done this every year since we were children. I must have deleted the date. That's only reason I would continue to neglect it each year."

John unfolded the white sheet of paper he found inside.

_April Fools._ -MH


	12. Before I Met You

Sherlock barged through the doors of the classroom and flopped down into the last row next to Mike. The professor glared up at them both and Mike put his head in his hands.

"I hate you," he mumbled.

"It's not my fault I'm an obnoxious teenager," Sherlock replied.

"You're at Uni. And Professor Numnix doesn't care how old you are. He cares if you come on time."

Sherlock merely shrugged and put a headphone into one ear so he could listen to music through the lecture.

"I don't know how you do it. You only show up half the time, barely listen, and pass all your exams with no trouble."

"Well there's a reason I'm at Uni at 15, Mike. The only reason I wasn't here sooner was that Mummy made me wait."

The professor tapped the table with his pencil until they finished speaking. Mike realized the entire class had gone silent and was turned to look at them. He could feel his face heating up. He glared over at Sherlock but the boy looked completely unfazed.

"If you two gentlemen want to talk, do it outside. Otherwise be quiet!"

Mike kicked Sherlock's shin every time he attempted to open his mouth again. At the end of the period he gathered all his things together and put them in his rucksack.

"I need to run back to my dorm. I'll see you later. Stay out of trouble!" Mike hollered as Sherlock gave him a maniacal grin.

"I always do!" Sherlock hollered back.

Mike returned to his dorm to find John hunched over his Anatomy book. His lips were moving silently as his fingers moved over the words on each page. Mike knew better than to interrupt. John had his timer besides him and he would study until it went off. There were about ten minutes left so Mike tried to keep himself quiet until then. When it finally buzzed John gave himself a deep stretch, arms high over his head.

"How's it going?" Mike asked.

"The studying or my life? Harry just came out to our parents. They're livid. They want me to talk some sense into her – like I've ever had any control over her. Just because we're twins doesn't mean we think anything alike," John answered.

"So she's not going to Uni?"

"I don't know what she's doing. Look Mike, I've got to go home this weekend. Could you stand in for me at the rugby match?"

"Course," Mike said. "Good luck."

That weekend Mike almost broke his ankle. He knew he wasn't a good replacement for John but he had no idea the team he was going to play against were so serious about the match. It was a grueling few hours. Sherlock was up in the stands with a book open on his lap. Occasionally he'd glance up to watch then go back to his reading.

"You always watch the weekend matches?" Mike asked after.

"I heard this one was going to be good. Apparently your team was missing their star player."

"That would be my roommate. He had to go home, couldn't play. Too bad. I think his team would have won."

The days passed and John returned to Uni. Mike didn't ask how the weekend had gone. It was written all over John's thunderous face. He did run into Sherlock in the halls. The sulky teenager was only too happy to tell him that he had to have lunch in central London with his older brother that day. Mike thought he'd never seen Sherlock so unhappy.

"Need a lift?" Mike asked.

"Ta but I'll take the tube."

Sherlock walked off and Mike realized John had come up behind him.

"I thought I heard you talking to someone. Who was that?" he asked.

"Just a kid. I try and keep an eye out for him. He's 15 and all kinds of trouble," Mike replied.

"15, eh? Must be smart," John said.

"You have no idea," Mike replied.

They went to the cafeteria for lunch and then back to the room they shared. Between their courses and studying it was an uneventful week.

When Mike returned to his advanced chemistry class there was a tension in the air that had nothing to do with their upcoming exams. Sherlock was standing below on the podium, arguing with the professor.

"I can't sit quietly by when you're obviously wrong!" the youth spat.

"I've been teaching this course for 20 years. I think I know a little more than you," Professor Numnix said. He was trying to remain calm but his fingers gripped the chalk so hard they were white.

"If you'll examine p901 of the instructor manual you'll see that I'm correct," Sherlock said.

"How did you get ahold of a copy? That isn't permissible for students. It's on par with cheating."

"How is it cheating? There are no test questions or answers. It's supplemental material. I checked it out from the public library."

"Sherlock if you want to remain in the class you will sit down!" he demanded.

"I don't need this class, it's just an extra few units. I'll take the risk. Speaking of risky behavior, does your wife know you're sleeping with a prostitute?"

Professor Numnix's face paled then grew a bright red.

"Out! Out of this room! Don't bother to come back!"

Sherlock slowly walked up the stairs, he made a big show of putting his things away, then shouldered his rucksack and walked out one of the side doors just as John came in through the other door.

"Mike, phone call. It's your mom. Sounded important."

It turned out it wasn't. His mom always liked to be dramatic. Dad was fine, she was fine, the world was fine.

The next morning John went out for his regular jog. He planned to enlist in the army after his pre-med courses were finished. For him it was the best route to becoming a doctor. John had just left minutes before when there was a soft knock at his door.

"Your roommate has gone for a run," Sherlock said.

"Yeah he has. Don't tell me how you know. I hate how obvious you make it seem. What can I do for you Sherlock?"

"Professor Nimnox won't let me drop the course. He's also forbidden me to return to his classroom. I don't care much if I fail but my brother will. What should I do? Do you think an apology would win him over?"

"I strongly doubt it. I don't think you can do anything except maybe seek an appeal," Mike said.

"Alright, I'll do that. Thanks."

John came back a few minutes later.

"That teenager was here. You just missed him."

"Huh, funny how that always seems to happen."

"You were gone longer than usual," Mike said.

"Yeah, I'm going to enlist sooner than I thought. Things aren't great at home and I want to get away and start my own life," John said.

"Well best of luck to you. When do you leave?"

"End of term."

The weeks went by and Mike found himself in the company of Sherlock or John but never both. Finally it was time for John to leave. Mike waved as the cab pulled away. Sherlock walked over and stood beside him.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"That was my roommate. He's off to fight for queen and country," Mike said.

"Too bad I never got to meet him. He sounded interesting," Sherlock replied.

"Not as interesting as you. Did your appeal go through?" Mike asked.

"Yeah. It did. Thanks for helping me with that."

"Anything for a friend," Mike replied.


	13. Someone to Love

Mycroft followed the trail of mud from the front door to Sherlock's bedroom. Mummy would be quite put off. The door was slightly ajar and Mycroft pushed it open. Sherlock was no where to be found. There was the sound of things shifting behind the closet door. Sherlock was sitting inside between the coats and boxes. He didn't bother to hide his wet face or turn away from Mycroft's gentle gaze. He looked at Mycroft wearily, as if he too might inflict on him some emotional harm.

"Those boys aren't the same as you and I. I tried to tell you," Mycroft said.

"They're my age," Sherlock whispered.

"Mentally they are far younger than you. I didn't try and warn you Sherlock."

"I wanted someone to play with," Sherlock said, wiping his nose with his sleeve. Mycroft winced and took a slight step back. He really hated getting sick. It so debilitating it was almost embarrassing. And the headaches and disgusting running nose - he could hardly cope.

"They don't want to play the games you do," Mycroft explained for the hundredth time.

"How do you know?"

"They didn't want to play with me either," Mycroft told him. He didn't say that he had given up trying much younger than Sherlock, had been happy to let go of the playmates Mummy tried to force on him. He enjoyed his solitude in ways Sherlock could not.

"They said I was a freak because I wanted to dissect a mouse."

"You aren't a freak Sherlock. Listen to me. You're special."

"I'm lonely," Sherlock said, burying his head in his arms.

"You will always have me. I understand. I know I'm not always around and then you have Redbeard. He's as much a companion as those goldfish you call friends. And he loves you," Mycroft said.

"Myc?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Do you love me?"

"Like a brother."

TWENTY YEARS LATER

John stared at him and Mycroft could read the stubbornness in his shoulders and the way he clenched his hand. Mycroft had to ask, but he knew this man would refuse. He spoke and John spoke back. It was easy to let his mind wander. The conversation was so predictable.

"And you are?" John asked.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock, why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

_Oh but once we were._

"How many friends do you imagine he has. I am the closest thing he'd capable of having."

And of course he offered John the money. Sherlock would expect it. If he didn't go through the routine his brother would begin to suspect and then who knew what might happen to John. John could be the answer. Unlike him, Sherlock needed companionship.

"I worry about him. Constantly," he said honestly to John's query. John didn't look convinced but no matter, it was true.

"That's... nice of you," John replied.

"We have a difficult relationship," Mycroft said.

And then John left, hopefully not for good. He was just the thing Sherlock needed. Someone who had also been ravaged by humanity and their intolerance towards things that are different. He was not one to play matchmaker, but perhaps in time there would be more between Sherlock and John that friendship.


	14. Tadpoles before end of Term

Mycroft kept his nose in his book and pointedly ignored the small feet peeking out on the floor beneath the pages. He had a term paper to finish and he wanted it complete so he could resume studying the material he truly cared about. The feet shuffled slightly and Mycroft sighed. Sherlock wasn't going to go away. He didn't ask what Sherlock wanted because he already knew. Sherlock was bored.

"Myc," Sherlock said.

"Read," Mycroft suggested.

"Don't feel like it."

"That microscope I gave you," Mycroft suggested.

"There's only so much you can look at with a maximum magnification of 50," Sherlock replied. Sherlock had a point there. He'd lost interest with the gift within a week and he'd been much younger than Sherlock when he got it.

"The tadpoles in the creek have legs now," Mycroft said hopefully. Sherlock glared at him as if offended by the suggestion.

"Please Myc, please," Sherlock said.

"You just want attention. You aren't truly bored."

"You're never home anymore. One game," Sherlock said.

Mycroft put his book aside and shuffled his notes together into a neat pile. His hands went to his lap where they clasped one another.

"I can't come how all the time. I'm very busy," he finally said.

"You aren't busy now," Sherlock grinned and Mycroft sighed. Sherlock gave a whoop of excitement and Mycroft knew he'd been beaten. Beaten by his own heart and the soft spot he held for his only brother. God help them both.

"I was busy until you interrupted. What shall we play? Chess? Othello?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock ran to the game closet and came back with the one thing Mycroft had hoped they wouldn't end up playing.

"Fine. But I go first," Mycroft said. Sherlock shrugged.

There was reason Mycroft detested this game and only one. Sherlock always won.

And sure enough it was his turn to take out the brain and the buzzer sounded jarringly.

Sherlock took out what may have been a femur with no difficulty. When the game ended Sherlock had three more points than he did. He hadn't won a single game since Sherlock had gotten Operation on his last birthday.

"And now I have to study."

"You can study later. Let's go look at the tadpoles," Sherlock said.

Mycroft put his books and notes on the side table.

"Let's," he said.


	15. A Winter Game

Mycroft brought out the pocket watch father had given him last year for his birthday. Attached to the gold chain was a single key. Mummy had understood his need for privacy, a space to call his own where nothing would be disturbed. He knew every inch of his room, from the sheer blue curtains covering his window to the plush carpet beneath his feet.

As he stepped over the threshold he immediately knew something was wrong. The books were still neatly lined on his shelves. The duvet on the bed was as straight and tightly tucked as he had made it. But something nagged at him. He gave the room a single long sweep with his eyes. What was it?

There, besides his lamp. A picture frame was missing. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Only one person would be so bold as to come into his room uninvited. Sherlock must have learned how to pick the lock.

Mycroft imagined his little brother carefully unbending a stack of paperclips, then rebending them into different shapes and angles. His tongue would be sticking out at one corner of his mouth like it did when he was concentrating. But where would he have practiced this particular skill? The greenhouse was a likely candidate. It was remote with no servants and had a simple locking mechanism.

Still it was hard to believe the young boy had managed to break into his room during the busiest time of day. He must have studied the patterns of the staff. His timing would have to be perfect to avoid Mummy as well. She seemed to catch Sherlock in his acts of subterfuge quite often. Well this was probably a onetime occurrence. Best to let it go. Saying something to Mummy would only encourage Sherlock.

A week went by before it happened again. This time it was his leather bound copy of Treasure Island. It was obvious from the pattern of dust on his bookshelf it had recently been removed. Sherlock had shifted the books to hide the empty space, so there was no gaping hole where the book once had been. Clever. But not clever enough. Mycroft sighed then gave a small shrug. He hadn't read the book in years. Sherlock would probably enjoy the adventure the pages promised.

The next day it was his favorite pair of socks.

Two days later he went to take his pocket watch from the side table drawer where he kept it and it was gone.

"This is getting ridiculous," he muttered to himself.

He knew the drive behind Sherlock's actions. Boredom. That little brain wasn't getting enough stimulation. He also seemed to resent Mycroft's time away at Uni. He had left home when Sherlock was eight, with Sherlock begging him to stay. Ever since then his brother had avoided interacting with him directly. Mycroft would enter the dining room for breakfast, Sherlock would leave. Sherlock would be sitting by the fire and Mycroft would join him; Sherlock would ignore him in favor of Redbeard.

What Sherlock really needed was a distraction.

That evening Mycroft hid a prepared slide of a bee's wing in the space where his copy of Treasure Island had once been. He wasn't surprised to find it gone after his morning walk the next day.

In the afternoon he placed a small bottle with a tiny model of a ship in a shoe at the bottom his closet. It stayed there for three days and nothing disappeared from his bedroom. On the fourth day Sherlock gave him a small smile at the table and when he returned from breakfast the ship was gone.

The pocket watch was returned to the side drawer. The socks had been laundered and the maid had left them outside his door with the rest of his laundry, as was his preference. He hunted for the picture frame even though he knew it wasn't there, just in case Sherlock had become even more clever than Mycroft gave him credit for. He returned to Uni and the frame was still missing. When he returned for winter break and it was still gone, Mycroft set out to find it.

First he checked the greenhouse because, well, leave it to Sherlock to choose sentiment over logic. The door was wide open. There's only one reason Sherlock would intentionally leave the door open. He was sure Mycroft would check there first.

Mycroft briefly considered searching the grounds before dismissing it. He didn't mind a short walk but he refused to exert that much energy over a picture. Sherlock would know, ergo the object in question was in the house somewhere. He ruled out his room, the kitchen, the guest bedrooms, and the bathroom. He opened the front door and stood in the entryway, considering.

His eyes moved to the stairway, tracing the wide sweeping arch down to the ground floor. Something nagged at him, something he should know or remember. It reminded him of winter. So he closed his eyes and moved through his memories. He traveled backwards through the years, the stream of information centered on every time he had stood in this exact location with the chill of December right outside.

When the last two years yielded no additional information he skipped back, trying to narrow down the period where this foyer was significant for Sherlock. The answer came to him suddenly, like something that was half forgotten then remembered.

"Of course," he said out loud. There was a small utility closet beneath the stairs that was used for cleaning supplies, brooms, and a vacuum cleaner. But once it had held something else. It had been so long ago that Mycroft was surprised Sherlock remembered. He couldn't have been older than four.

Mycroft opened the small door and there, tucked in one dusty corner, was the frame. Mycroft took it gingerly into his hands. It was a photo of Sherlock and himself, standing in the snow, not quite hugging but very close together. Close enough that they could have been hugging just a moment ago, although Mycroft knew they hadn't. Sherlock was smiling widely because they'd just gone sledding. His cheeks were still flushed from excitement. This wasn't the first time they had gone sledding together but it would probably be the last.

The first time he'd taken Sherlock sledding the boy had been barely able to talk. He'd been a willful child, and also frustrated as his brain developed faster than his body. It had been Christmas afternoon and Sherlock was terrorizing the new dog, chasing him around the house until Mummy sighed in exasperation.

"Take him out in the snow. Let him burn off some of his energy," Mummy had said.

Mycroft had sulked but he'd complied with the request. Sherlock had let out a whoop and had his gloves and hat on faster than it should be possible for a boy that had only recently learned to put on his own pants.

Mycroft certainly didn't plan to throw snowballs or build a snowman. He had walked over to the closet under the stairs and opened the door. There, leaning against one wall, was his sled, a Christmas present from the year before. He carried out the sled through the front door and Sherlock had followed with wide eyes.

Sherlock couldn't ride alone. He could barely make it up the gentle slope by himself with Mycroft tugging on his small gloved hand. So Mycroft had sat him on the front of the sled and wrapped his arms tightly around the small figure. They started off slow and then they hit the edge of the hill and Sherlock had laughed as they picked up speed. The wind whistled past their ears and then they reached the bottom. Sherlock got up and blinked away the snowflakes that fell onto his lashes.

"Again! Again!"

They'd stayed out all afternoon until Mummy called them inside for hot chocolate.

Mycroft stood there lost in memories until Sherlock called his name.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, turning to face his brother.

"Thanks Myc," he said. It could have been spoken in gratitude for the game they were playing but Mycroft knew it wasn't. Sherlock was much to grave for his eight years and this was more important than the game. It was an acknowledgement of the part he'd played in their childhood, a time when they'd both been happier in one another's presence.

"You're welcome, little brother."


	16. Party

The 3's had been atrocious and full of quite a bit of screaming and yelling, most of it over food choices. Sherlock was very picky with his meals. His peas were not allowed to occupy the same space as his potatoes. No food of the same color could touch, except when it was desert of course. 4 had been a little better but Sherlock had refused to take naps when needed and would spend those hours drawing and painting instead, and so was particularly cranky and out of sorts for most of that year.

At 5 Mummy had sent him to primary school. That had lasted two weeks before the school had asked Sherlock to be removed until the following year. From what Mycroft had gathered he'd been telling his class about the birds and the bees – in quite a bit of detail. At age 6 Sherlock had become consumed by his own internal world. He read every book he could find and spent hours hiding in a fort made of sheets with Redbeard at his side, and together they mostly kept out of trouble.

But at 7, that glorious number, Sherlock had the right amount of self-control to return to school, leaving Mycroft in blessed, blessed peace. Mycroft himself was ready to attend Uni, but Mummy insisted he wait one more year. He hadn't yet told Sherlock he'd be going away per Mummy's request, but Sherlock was bright for his age and Mycroft thought he'd already worked it out for himself.

7 turned out to be a good year all around and the most bearable to date. Sherlock could interact with him without being a complete nuisance, although he was light years behind Mycroft in intelligence.

As Sherlock approached 9 their mother approached 43. Father threw her a rather large and expensive party, and made the boys promise to stay out from underfoot. It proved the perfect scenario to analyze the people their parents knew. Unfortunately Sherlock often missed the most obvious of details and Mycroft had to point them out to him.

"How do you know Mr. Tilly wants to marry Ms. Edmonds for her money?" Sherlock asked as he crushed his face between the banisters and looked at the group of people below them. There was the soft murmur of conversations, oiled by too many drinks and the limited space of the floor.

"Well, what do you think of his choice in clothing?" Mycroft said in return.

"Good quality but bought second hand and recently. What of it?" Sherlock said. Mr. Tilly looked up briefly towards them as if overhearing part of their conversation. Sherlock stuck out his tongue but Mr. Tilly had already turned his attention back to the lady he was attempting to woo.

"He's never cared about appearances before. Remember that dreadful yellow jumper he favored for most of last year?" Mycroft said.

"What else?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

"His hair, parted to one side to hide the fact it's thinning and recently dyed to hide the gray. Every aspect of his appearance suggests interest but it's the hair that gives away the intent. He wants to appear younger and wealthier than he actually is."

Sherlock considered this information for a moment, eyes squinting at the couple below.

"Why does he keep looking at her purse?" he finally asked.

"Why indeed," Mycroft mused. "Rather obvious, isn't he."

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, his tongue poking out from the corner of one mouth.

"Why don't you say something then? Don't you care?" he asked, and Mycroft smirked.

"Caring is not an advantage Sherlock."

Sherlock pushed himself up.

"You care about me," Sherlock pointed out, pulling at the curls of his own hair. Mycroft sighed as he thought of his thin, fine hair. His uncles were all bald on his mother's side and he knew he'd inherited that gene, just as he knew Sherlock had not.

"As much as I endeavor not to."

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"Caring won't help them. If it's not Mr. Tilly it will be someone else. At least Mr. Tilly is mostly harmless."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I meant why do you care about me?"

"It's not for your intelligence," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock crossed his arms, a small storm brewing in his blue eyes.

"You're my brother," Mycroft finally said. "My only brother. I shan't have another. I have no friends, no lovers. There's no one else for me to care about except family."

Sherlock considered his words.

"Caring isn't an advantage," Sherlock repeated.

"No, but it is necessary sometimes," Mycroft said softly. "It's a reminder why I make the choices that I do. It's something to fight for."

"Why would you have to fight for me? I'm just 9."

"You'll be an adult before you know it and that means you'll make adult choices. Lord help us all. I doubt your teenage years will be docile. I want you to remember this conversation, Sherlock. We won't have it again."

"Whatever you say, Myc," Sherlock agreed and went back to the banister, eyes sweeping the crowd below. Then it was time for cake and singing and clapping. Mummy's eyes shone brightly as she kissed father's cheek. Sherlock retreated with his small slice of cake to one corner of the room. Mycroft helped himself to two slices and then joined him.

"I don't think Mr. Tilly will marry her," Sherlock finally said.

Mycroft glanced over, a small smile on his lips.

"Ah, so you noticed," Mycroft said.

"She doesn't try to make conversation with any of the men," Sherlock replied. Sherlock shoved a large bite of cake into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

"No need to interfere then, if she's only interested in women. It's hard having such a nit for a brother," Mycroft teased gently.

"Shut up, Myc," Sherlock said, licking the last of the frosting from his fork.


	17. Seashells by the Seashore

Mycroft hugged his arms to his legs and buried his toes in the wet sand. It was breezy and there was a chill in the air. Instead of calming him the sound of the waves breaking on the beach was almost irritating. It didn't help that his little brother was running back and forth, playing tag with the surf and screaming every time the water got too close.

Now Sherlock was drawing his trousers over his knees so he could wade in. The water was as cold as ice and he would catch a cold and mummy would blame him. Well Sherlock was 9 now, he hardly needed looking after. He wouldn't listen to Mycroft no matter how logical his suggestion might be. Best to let him play on his own then.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock called, waving his arms towards the water. Clearly he was delusional if he thought Mycroft planned to join him.

Mycroft rested his chin on his knees and watched as Sherlock piled sand near the edge of the water, only to have it washed away with the next wave. Knowing his younger brother he was probably studying the patters left by the moving currents on the dirt below. Sherlock was bending over and when he stood he was holding a small shell. He gave a whoop and ran over to where Mycroft was seating, his feet kicking up sand and debris.

Sherlock held out his hand to reveal a small sand dollar, bone white with perfectly smooth edges.

"Help me find shells, Myc. Please?" Sherlock asked, tugging on one hand. Dear lord, first wading and now shell collecting. He acquiesced only because Mummy had been so specific. Two hours by the shore, no excuses. She needed time to prepare for guests that evening. Even on holiday she kept herself busy, constantly entertaining friends and family.

Sherlock stuffed his treasures into his pockets, blue eyes darting around in the sand for more. Mycroft walked besides him with his hands clasped together behind his back. The air tasted of salt this close to the shore. It stuck to his skin, sticky and damp. His hair was wind tossed and damp and if he looked anything like Sherlock then it was also sticking up rather oddly. He sighed and continued to walk.

"I'm going to bury everything I find and make a map," Sherlock declared.

"I strongly doubt anyone wants to find your new collection," Mycroft replied.

"Of course you wouldn't want to. What about Jane and Jessica?" Sherlock said.

"True. Best make the map easy to read then," Mycroft said.

Sherlock glanced around but there was only sand and surf as far as the eye could see. They both turned around and headed back towards the house. There were plenty of boulders to serve as a hiding place. Sherlock found a particular large one and started digging into the sand with two hands, throwing dirt out behind his legs. Mycroft quickly removed himself from the flight path and scowled down at his little brother. Sherlock glanced up at him from over his shoulder, a mischievous grin on his face.

Soon his pockets were empty and the shells buried beneath the sand. Sherlock was stacking several of the smaller stones to form a tower. It balanced precariously as the wind pushed against it, threatening to overturn it. Sherlock stood up and walked a few feet before he repeated his task. Soon there was a line of stone statues leading back to the treasure beneath the sand.

"I think I made it too easy," Sherlock bemoaned as he finished. His smile was turned down into the unhappy frown Mycroft had seen more and more of lately.

"I think you overestimate your cousins," Mycroft replied. "What prize do you plan to give them should they succeed?"

Sherlock shrugged. He picked up a large stick and trailed it in the sand, suddenly moody.

"This was a stupid idea. They won't even want to play," he muttered.

Mycroft was stunned. Of course Sherlock was right about the twins. They were more interested in tea parties and dollies. That didn't mean the idea didn't have merit.

"I think if it was done correctly a treasure hunt would be most invigorating. Why don't you find a new hiding spot for your shells and then I shall find them. No maps, no hints."

Sherlock stopped and dropped his stick back into the sand.

"Okay! Close your eyes!" he yelled over his shoulder as he ran to the large boulder. For ten long minutes Mycroft kept his eyes tightly shut and he heard Sherlock run back and forth in the sand, hunting for the perfect hiding spot. He ended up somewhere in the northwest area of the boulders. That narrowed down his task considerably. Then Sherlock ran back as fast as he could, his breath coming out in fast huffs.

"I'm ready, Myc," Sherlock said. Mycroft looked up into the shining face of his little brother, those blue eyes lit up with a quiet joy. If only Sherlock could feel like this more often instead of sullen and sulky. Mummy had been right. This seaside air was good for the boy.

"Alright then," Mycroft said, pushing himself up with his hands. He confidently strode towards the northwest, looking around for signs that Sherlock had been there. There were footprints – easy to read even with the gushes of wind that tickled his skin beneath his clothes with its chill.

It took him all of two minutes to pick up the spot where the dirt had been moved. To his credit Sherlock didn't look the least bit worried and Mycroft let out the breath he'd been holding. He hadn't wanted Sherlock to feel disappointed he'd discovered the hiding spot so quickly.

"It doesn't count unless you find them," Sherlock informed him.

Mycroft rolled his eyes then crouched above the sand. His hands moved pile after pile to one side. Two minutes later there was still no sign of the shells and Mycroft had bits of grit rubbing under his nails.

"You still have them in your pockets," Mycroft finally announced.

Sherlock spun around in circles until he was dizzy and collapsed on the earth beneath Mycroft's feet.

"Maybe," he giggled then moved his arms up and down to make an angel in the sand.

Mycroft toed at his ribs with one bare foot and Sherlock shrieked and rolled away.

"Having a good holiday?" Mycroft asked. All he got in reply was a well-aimed fist full of sand. Then Sherlock was off like a shot, heels digging into the ground as he ran back to the house.

"I'll take that as a yes," Mycroft muttered as he shook his head to get out the sand. He followed in Sherlock's wake, a small body with a shock of black curly hair.


	18. Pirates vs Ninja

She sat clutching a ragged doll with one hand while her eyes darted about the room. Above her head the adults stood with voices barely above a whisper. The man with grey hair, the one who had taken her away from the blood and dark and smoke, glanced down at her wide blue eyes. He ran a hand through his hair and asked her the same question, the question they all kept asking, while she bit her tongue to keep from crying.

"Can you tell me what he looked like, the man with the gun?" Lestrade asked gently. She shook her head and buried her head under her arms, hugging her doll close to her chest.

"Then can you tell me your name? Your parents must be worried about you."

The girl trembled but was silent. Lestrade sighed and rubbed at his eyes.

"Who called the freak?" Sally asked, voice filled with loathing.

"I did," Lestrade said. "We need him on this, Sally. We don't have any leads. He'll figure it out in half the time and we can all go home."

"We have an eye witness," Sally said.

"Yeah, and she isn't talking, is she?"

Sherlock came in without knocking, John in tow.

"Thanks for coming down," Lestrade said.

"What took you so long?" Sally asked.

"We had to visit the warehouse first," John answered. Sherlock gave him a withering look.

"That's not allowed. You can't just do whatever you want," said Sally.

"I think I can," Sherlock answered.

"Enough," Lestrade said, holding up his hands at them both.

The silence lasted just a few seconds and then a child's small cries broke it. Sally bent down until she was level with the little girl. Her hands swept the long hair back from the dirty face.

Lestrade nodded towards the door and Sherlock stepped out into the hall with him.

"So?" Lestrade asked.

"So," Sherlock answered.

"What did you find at the warehouse?"

"There were two victims, not one as you stated in your text. One male, one female," Sherlock said. "Obviously drug related. You're looking for a man in his mid- to late-30's, 5'8" going by his shoe size. The perpetrator left on foot then returned with friends to carry away the bodies. Judging by the distance of the warehouse to known gang safehouses, I'd say he has ties to the Blue Bandits."

"Anything else?" Lestrade asked. John opened the door and joined them in the hallway.

"They victims were not the girl's parents," Sherlock said.

"How can you tell?"

"She's not in shock; she's just not talking," John answered. "She let me examine her, even smiled when I told her I liked her doll. She probably witnessed part of the crime, but I don't think she saw the murders."

"A little girl sees one man running away from a dark warehouse. She finds two bodies, each with a bullet wound to the head. She doesn't even need to hide when he returns with his companions because they aren't looking for a little girl half hidden in the shadows. She watched them carry the bodies away then waited for the police to arrive."

Lestrade took a step back and blinked a few times.

"Bloody hell, we haven't gotten two words out of her. How did you know all that?"

"Isn't it obvious? She ran away from an unhappy home two weeks ago and has managed to survive even though she's only seven. She's resourceful, curious, even brave. She's seen her share of violence. It's fear that's holding her back."

"Fear of what?" Lestrade asked.

"Fear that she'll be returned home."

They went back into the office to find Sally still kneeling by the girl. She was trying to coax something from her.

"Can you tell who your mommy is? Or your daddy?" Sally asked.

"No, no, no!" Sherlock shouted, making everyone jump.

"Get him out of here, he's scaring her!" Sally said.

"You're the one asking questions about her abusive father and alcoholic mother."

"Sherlock," John said, and nodded towards the girl who was watching them all. John knelt down in Sally's place and the little girl offered him a timid smile. There was a reason John was a doctor. His smile was comforting, his hands gentle as they held hers.

"Can you tell me your doll's name?" he asked softly. "She's very pretty."

Sherlock interjected. "What does a doll have to do-"

"Clara," the little girl whispered, smoothing the doll's hair.

"Clara, that's lovely. Did you name her that?"

"Yes," the girl said.

"And what's your name then? Just your first name, so I know what to call you."

When the little girl didn't answer John made humming sound.

"Well, maybe I can guess. Is your name Clara, too? No? How about Sally? This lady here, her name is Sally."

"Hi, Sally."

"Hi, sweetie."

"So what's your name?" John prompted again.

"Jenny."

"Jenny, that's a great name. What's your favorite holiday, Jenny?"

"Halloween."

"Jenny, did you dress up for Halloween last year? You did. What did you wear? Were you a princess?"

"No, I was a ninja. A girl ninja. I had a sword and everything."

Sherlock chuckled lightly and Jenny smiled shyly at him.

"Sherlock was a pirate almost every year when he was a boy," John said.

"Really? Didn't you ever want to be something else?" Jenny asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth but no words came out. He seemed to be searching for something to say.

"No, I liked being a pirate," he finally answered.

"Pirates are stupid," Jenny declared. "Ninjas always beat pirates, always."

"Nonsense. Ninja were covert agents acting alone and mostly nonviolent, engaging in open combat only in specific situations," Sherlock said.

"Ninjas have swords," said Jenny.

"Pirates have swords and guns."

"A ninja would beat a pirate," Jenny insisted.

"I don't think this is an argument you can win, Sherlock," Lestrade said.

"Jenny, those men you saw, they're like pirates. And we need to find them. You're a ninja and only you can help us beat them," said John.

"How?"

They called in the sketch artist and John gently coaxed a description from Jenny. As she worked Jenny swung her legs back and forth under her chair. Her dolly lay close by but she was no longer clutching it like a life preserver.

"Between her description and your insight I'm sure we can find who did this," Lestrade said to Sherlock.

"No doubt. Good evening, Inspector."

"Goodnight, Greg," John said.

Sherlock paused

"What about the girl?" Sherlock asked.

"She'll be placed in protective custody. There's no way I'm returning her to her home without an investigation," said Lestrade.

"Good."

Sherlock turned and strolled away, and John followed close behind.


	19. Tutor

Stuart Moriarty approached the Holmes boys as he would any other student under his tutelage. That was his first mistake, he realized.

The older was content to take apart any language and then use it as a weapon. They would banter as if their words were swordplay and Mycroft Holmes would issue demands that stretched his knowledge of the foreign tongue, such as teaching advanced calculus in that vernacular. It was a form of immersion but it was one that left him sweating under that calculating gaze.

The younger was a butterfly, flitting from subject to subject, garnering what was of personal interest and discarding the rest. He refused to sit for an examination and when he was asked to reiterate specific tasks the request was ignored. Moriarty took his concerns to their mother who issued him a cold stare. Going to her for advice of his charges had been his second mistake. (And not his last.)

"We hired you to teach the children, not complain about them. Kindly do your job," was her reply. "Or we'll find someone else who can."

And so he attempted bribery.

"Two hours of lessons, one hour of freetime," he suggested.

"No."

"Two hours of lessons, two hours of violin," he tried.

"No."

He attempted pleading.

"Please could you be so kind as to-"

"No."

And finally threats.

"Your mother will hear of this!"

Until finally he caved in desperation.

"What do you suggest!" Moriarty finally snapped, glaring down at his charge, who was lying on the floor with a book between his hands.

At this Sherlock rolled over and smiled.

"Give me a lesson plan and I'll learn it. If I have questions I can come to you," he answered.

Moriarty stared down at Sherlock and then sighed. What choice did he have really?

"Sometimes you remind me of my son James," Stuart Moriarty replied.

"His interest in animal dissection is unhealthy," said a voice from the doorway.

"Pardon?" Moriarty managed.

Mycroft shrugged and turned away.

"How did he… how could he…." Moriarty fumbled.

"Your clothes smell faintly of formaldehyde but your fingers don't," Sherlock said from the floor, as if it were perfectly obvious. Now he was holding the book over his head as he read.

"Right," Moriarty replied, shrugging off the incident.

That was his last mistake. To take the boys as anything except what they were invited trouble. And these boys were sharp as tacks and had motives no ordinary youth should have.

"You lost your last two bets at the track. High time you move on to a different hobby," Mycroft told him in Greek.

Stuart Moriarty could only nod in agreement.

"You refuse to teach me violin because you only play piano. Look at your fingers. They lack the callouses of even a novice. You told mummy you could play violin. What would she think?"

"I'm sure she'd understand. Simply because I don't play doesn't mean I can't teach," he replied nervously.

"No Latin lesson today," the youth announced as he walked out the back door.

"You must forgive him," Mycroft said from behind him, and he started and turned around.

"What?"

"He lacks tact. It comes with age," the older Holmes said in French.

"Indeed," said Moriarty.

"For example, I could tell you that your wife plans to leave you and take your son James with her. But that would be unnecessarily cruel," Mycroft said.

Stuart Moriarty reeled back. He had only found out this news the day before yesterday. How could this youth possibly know the most intimate details of his life?

"You have been constantly fiddling with your ring the last two days, taking it off and putting it on again during lessons. You mention your son but with the feelings of remorse or regret. Your clothing was expertly pressed when you started with us but since that time has become less so. Ergo, rocky marriage, recently culminating in an even messier divorce."

Moriarty knew his mouth was hanging open. At the same time he felt a deep anger, as if this mere boy was opening up his heart and soul for public display and all had found it lacking.

"That is none of your business," Moriarty said with as much calm as he could.

"But it is. I find the most intimate knowledge of staff extremely useful when negotiating."

Moriarty swallowed and then took a deep breath.

"Negotiating what?" he asked.

"I want you to stay on, to teach Sherlock. I'm leaving for uni at the end of the year and he'll have no guiding hand here at home. For all your faults you are the most successful a tutor as he's had," Mycroft said.

"And if I refuse?"

Mycroft raised one eyebrow and the message was clear: don't be stupid.

"As you wish, young sir," Moriarty finally answered, deflated.

The day Mycroft left for university was also Moriarty's last day in the Holmes household.

"Sherlock informs me you've been allowing him to set his own lesson schedule," Mrs. Holmes said with some aloofness.

"It was at Mycroft's suggestion," Moriarty said hopefully.

"Of course it was," she sighed.

"I did come to you with this problem when I first gained employment here," he said.

"And I told you to take care of it. This is not what I had in mind," she said.

"I'll take my leave then," Moriarty said, defeated.

From the top of the stairs, his little head peeking between the banisters, Sherlock Holmes stuck out his tongue. Moriarty wasn't sure what else the unruly youth had said to his mother, but it was certainly damaging and possibly embarrassing.

Sherlock met him at the bottom of the stairs with a large grin.

"I told her that your Latin is even worse than your Greek, and you refuse to let me play violin," Sherlock replied.

"But none of that it true!" Moriarty protested.

"Yes but she doesn't know that," Sherlock replied.

"I've had enough of this household!" Moriarty muttered as he turned away.

"You lasted longer than any of the others," Sherlock said.

"Others?" Moriarty asked, but Sherlock was already gone. Off to find Redbeard or play pirates.

"Others," a voice confirmed. "It seems Sherlock has won," Mycroft said from the doorway. "We don't really need a tutor, you see. But Mummy does insist."

Moriarty finally understood. After months at the Holmes manor the patterns should have been clear, but he was just now seeing it.

"You boys have some sort of contest. To what ends? To drive off your tutors?" Moriarty said.

"Usually they quit. You were quite the sport. Good show," Mycroft said, rocking back on his heels.

"Of all the nonsense!" Moriarty snarled.

"I thought you did well considering. I could speak with Mummy if you'd like, encourage her to let you stay. I meant what I said about Sherlock," he said.

"I am not staying in this household one minute longer. You're deranged, the both of you! I wish you a good day!"

As the door shut behind him Moriarty felt a sense of relief. This was a chapter in his life that was now behind him. He would concentrate on building a new life, one that didn't involve an unfaithful wife and a strange, eccentric son. It would be a good life, if not a quiet one.

Sherlock and Mycroft watched Moriarty walk down the long drive, away from their home.

"He really wasn't that bad," Mycroft said to Sherlock.

"He wasn't that good either. I don't need a tutor, Myc," Sherlock replied.

"Perhaps," Mycroft said. "But I would have felt better leaving knowing you were in good hands."

"Don't worry, Myc. I'll be fine."

Sherlock raced back inside, leaving Mycroft staring down the drive. Leaving his brother alone didn't feel right and it probably never would. Ah well, there was always holidays and breaks and Christmas. Those traditions would outlive any of them.


End file.
